Utopia
by danceonthebrink
Summary: They're the unlikeliest of friends and honestly, they wouldn't have it any other way. AU, based on the idea that nations go to purgatory while their bodies recover from dying, and they can meet each other there.


i. friendship

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There's a hot, dry, breeze coming from nowhere, but for some reason Alfred doesn't quite mind it. It ruffles his hair, dishevelling it even more, and his forehead is sticky and shiny with sweat.

He's alone at the booth, but he shouldn't be for long. There is a war going on, after all.

"A jug of soda should do." He says to the waitress, who nods and smiles. There's something off about her but America can't be bothered figuring out what. When she saunters away, her heels click against the shiny linoleum floor.

He takes off his glasses and wipes the condensation off. Did this place have seasons? Could purgatory have a summer? Or maybe the cosmos had just aligned it this way.

When Francis arrives the soda has gone warm. Francis's only flaw right now is the gaping hole in his chest and Alfred feels a sense of jealousy deep in his being. His absent leg throbs, phantom pains.

He doesn't mention the obvious fatigue on the Frenchman's face, the stressed lines etched into the usually clear sin.

"I've been waiting for company for a while," Alfred says. "What took you?"

Francis doesn't look all too surprised to see him, instead just glanced around the tiny accommodation before settling down across from Alfred. "Just a little matter of life and death," he says flippantly, ignoring the menu.

"That's funny," Alfred says, not laughing.

"Mmm. Do you come here often?"

"At times. The food's good, but it's hardly worth the trouble."

"Indeed. I try not to, because I always end up ordering pastries when I come here. Terrible on the figure." Alfred wonders if their choice of consumption here has some sort of impact on their physical forms. Maybe. He recalled one time where he had woken up in a pool of his own gore, and had retched up what looked suspiciously like the beef and onion pie he had ordered.

Francis ends up ordering a blueberry danish, all the while smiling flirtatiously at the waitress. "If you get familiar with the staff, they're more likely to give you a discount," he explains to Alfred. Alfred has never paid for the food he eats here.

"Right, right." Alfred offers Francis a cup full of soda, which he refuses.

Francis is beginning to bore him. He is annoying Alfred with stories of his escapades with pretty American girls. Not because they're his people, but because hearing about all the sex Francis is scoring makes his own sex life pale in comparison. England was the one to annoy about that, he threw fits when he found out Francis had gotten too close to one or two (or several) of his citizens.

There was nothing Alfred could really do though. His leg would take a long time to heal, so he would just have to hope Francis made a quick recovery.

When the next person arrives, Alfred is happy about the new entertainment, while also being disappointed at who it is. Ivan makes a real entrance. Melting snow is dripping off his winter coat, covering the floor in puddles and wet spots. Deep red bullet wounds decorate his face. The waitress's face goes stormy as she scolds him for making a mess. Alfred and Francis snicker in the corner as Ivan's expression turns childishly apologetic. He is hiding his face in his scarf, like a little boy being punished for disobeying rules.

"Can I have some?" Is the first thing Ivan says when he squeezes next to Alfred. It takes Alfred a moment to realise that he means the soda, so he pours him a glass.

The setting sort of reminds Alfred of one he used to see often. It's a warm scene of friendship; groups of peers in a diner, sharing food and laughter. Of course, Ivan and Francis are not his friends, but it's a cheerful thought.

A little bit of soda trickles out of a hole in Ivan's cheek when he takes a sip, and he blushes bright red in embarrassment.

"Where are your table manners, Ivan." Francis teases, handing him a napkin. Ivan sets down the drink and doesn't take another sip.

It's midday when Natalya arrives. She looks better than any of them, all clear skin and shiny hair unaffected by the spoils of war. Natalya is lucky. She does not have to send out her men, like Ivan and Alfred, and she is not suffering from Germany's tyrannical rule like Francis. She is a girl, and girls get to stay home while the men fight. Nobody asks how she got herself killed.

"Ahh, you're just in time. I just ordered another jug of pop, the ice hasn't even melted yet," Alfred says as he pours her a drink. "All yours!"

Natalya screws up her face distastefully in what Alfred thinks is a hilarious imitation of what Ivan looked like when he was being told up. She denies the cup, and orders a coffee instead. She asks the waitress for _the usual_ , which makes Alfred grimace because, how can you say 'the usual' at a place where only dying can get you in?

Her coffee smells sweet, and is almost white from the amount of milk and cream that is in it. "Funny, I took you as someone who drank black. You've got that kind of hard-ass attitude, yanno?" Alfred grins.

"Don't speak to my sister that way." Ivan commands.

"I can look out for myself, but thank you." Natalya says in heavily accented English. Alfred isn't sure why his language is the default (or was it Arthur's language?) but he wasn't complaining.

Alfred laughs heartily, looking at the two siblings back and forth. Francis says,"You two are so much alike. Is it because you spend an unhealthy amount of time together, or does it run in the family?"

Natalya scowls, and it looks like Ivan almost makes the same face but stops himself before doing so. "Well, our older sister is very different from us. In looks and personality, and we have all been together for the same amount of time."

"Oh, older sister? I'm not sure who you're talking about." Francis says. She was probably a minor Slavic country, and Francis didn't care much for them.

Ivan describes her appearance, comparing the colour of her hair and eyes to Alfred's. "So this girl basically just looks like me?" She probably descended from Finland, like Alfred.

"Eh, well… she has these. Um." Ivan's cheeks are flushed again, and he cups his chest to mime his words.

"Breasts?" Francis offers breezily. "Yes, women do tend to have those."

"Uh, yes. No. Hers are—"

"Fake?"

"No!" Ivan looks scandalised.

"They are exceptionally large," Natalya contributes to the conversation.

"Ah, I see. So she's Alfred but with bosoms. Anything else?"

Ivan clears his throat, schooling his face back to an unnervingly content expression. "She's maternal, and quite weepy. But enough about my sestra."

"I wish I had big knockers," Alfred says giddily, clutching at his chest.

"I said enough!"

But Alfred continues to grope himself, grinning wildly at the other three nations. He hasn't consumed anything but soda pop and a few bites of Francis's blueberry danish for the past however-many-hours, and its starting to show.

"You know, sometimes I almost that you're nothing more than a child, but then you go and do something like this and remind me. Silly boy." Francis tuts, leaning his head on his arm. "Oh?"

A quick glance at Francis's chest and anyone can see that his wound has closed up, only ripped fabric left behind. Francis lays a hand across where his heart is. "It appears my heart has started beating again. Well, the time has come to bid you adieu!" He stands with a flourish, delicately sliding out of the booth.

"I hope you don't encounter any of the axis during the rest of your stay," he winks.

"Wouldn't that be a good thing?" Natalya muses. "It'd mean that they're out of commission for a while."

"Do you have to go? You don't have to. I'll be bored with these two." Alfred complains. "What if your cartilage hasn't healed properly yet?"

Of course it didn't matter if they had healed, they could leave whenever they started living again. The waitress would sometimes decide to stop accomodating anyone who loafed around the café for too long.

"I should get going as well," Natalya says. Alfred doesn't know what was wrong with her in the first place. He huffs in annoyance. Ivan would leave soon, as well, and he'd be left alone with that creepy waitress.

"Do what you want, I guess," Alfred relents. Nothing he could do. Soon he'd have to get back to the first realm, start fighting again. It may be boring here, but it was chaotic there. He didn't know which one he preferred, but he was feeling lazy today.

But he'll deal with that after he heals.

 **/ lol it's been years. Im redoing this story because i didn't like the format. Tell me your thoughts! xx**


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